


The aria of the Emperor, the Knight, and the World

by Kuro_Ko



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, I'd like Dorothea to sing this, Imagine the story being told centuries later, Multi, Yes those are Tarot references based in their crests, honestly I don't know what to put here, i just wanted them to hold hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuro_Ko/pseuds/Kuro_Ko
Summary: The story of the priest, the chariot and the world joined as one. If you may listen carefully, a story as old as time itself will teach you that the present is the only dimension it matters when it comes to change.And, if you may, listen to the love that united the parts together, the cracks and the fissures never defying the very fire that powered the world, the will, the chariot.The Will, the Sword, the Executor.The Emperor, the Knight and the World.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	The aria of the Emperor, the Knight, and the World

## The aria of the Emperor, the Knight, and the World. The Will, the Sword, and the Executioner.

Time relentless, immemorial. Faceless but for the little traces that were carved in its trunk as the great tree kept growing, twisting, joining and splitting in a never-ending cycle. Even from the bottom of its shaping worlds roots the story could be read in letters meant to be sung by the worthy, by those who could devote their life for knowledge and give their very flesh for the gift of its light. The story of change, the story of the beacon of the world that changed the very will of the goddess that wrote its law.

The story of the priest, the chariot and the world joined as one. If you may listen carefully, a story as old as time itself will teach you that the present is the only dimension it matters when it comes to change.

And, if you may, listen to the love that united the parts together, the cracks and the fissures never defying the very fire that powered the world, the will, the chariot.

The Will, the Sword, the Executor.

The Emperor, the Knight and the World.

She was a volcano boiling and waiting, undaunted, unshaken, immovable in the face of adversity. She was adversity, she was the change she wished for the world. She was will, strong, steel, sharp, power, unmatched. Strength and wisdom intertwined in a single one, a blow that spoke by its weight and not by its loquacity. Molten lava, magma alive boiling, pressing, building, churning, wating.

Waiting.

The red edge of her blade a tale that was told in a single blow, a truth that couldn't be silenced no matter how many throats felt silent to the words of those with mouths to speak them. Injustices invisible to the eye of the one who doesn't want to see, atrocities committed in the shadows of a system that build tall towers next to deep wells, shades and colors obscured by the distance and blindness of those who looked at the sun waiting for answers never to come in the tall towers of their endeavors and their mistakes. Riding the high wave of their egos in an effort to understand nobody but themselves. In an unfair world marked and ruled by the death words of those who had fallen long ago even for their faces to be remembered, the red edge of her blade was a blessing and a curse.

The red edge of her blade tainted with her own blood, offerings of a past that was written in the immemorial wood, in the story of a tale that should've never been spoken. Told in whispers by a voice that had been buried forever as innocence was slowly, yet relentlessly taken away from it. Told in the voice of a child that had been brought up as a weapon and as a ruler.

The red edge of her blade was covered in the blood she had bled long ago, when it twisted her flesh in search of a chance to break the wheel of a world that knew not of equal, not of plains, but towers and spikes, but weapons and order and law dictated by words pronounced by the dead who could no longer be recognized, by the dead who could no longer spoke their truth, their voice dust carried by the stagnant wind.

Waiting in defiance.

Challenging new blood to speak their forgotten names in an effort to change them

Waiting.

The volcano whose profile was undaunted waited as well. Waited. Waited. Waited.

Waited.

The Emperor was fire, was life, was determination, vigorous and patient and intelligent as the big scheme was carefully threaded and crafted. Each plan, each action, each movement calculated and foreseen in anticipation, in preparation. A bowstring ready to snap and break the wheel of the world that wasn’t meant to cradle them, not for a second longer that was. The volcan had spoken in a rumble born from its deep bowel, had thunder and magma ready to ignite and explode and change the world that didn’t care to call all of their children equal under the light of the unforgiving sun.

Waited.

For its wrath would be atrocious and its change legendary and its voice absolute.

Waited.

For the wind blew its profile and woke up in it something else rather than boiling cholera that the injustices of the world used to ignite.

The cold wild wind born high up in the mountains so far away from the place she once called home.

The Knight who had every right to be so and yet was deprived of the very title that could quench her ambition and her thirst for more. The lance and the sword and the shield that would bend her knee to anybody who was worthy to be called her liege and her all.

The story diverged from its original course, as a river bed is reshaped when the dam breaks and the glacier melts and the white snow meets its end. The story diverged and the carving and traces in the trunk reshaped with it. A cycle in the never-ending tale the seasons would sing in the present, telling stories of the future that would be spoken in the past.

The Knight and the wind were one, the wind that blew with the seasons as a stagnant unbearable summer transformed into cruel fall and merciless winter. The wind knew how to adapt, carrying in its arms the changes as if they were ethereal and weightless as if they were meant to be and the wheel was meant to be broken and the children were meant to be called equal in a distant future that could hold the hope that the present had denied them.

The Knight and the wind were one, blowing through a merciless summer, gliding in a cruel fall and soaring through a stagnant long winter. She found in her arms the will to fight, in her blade the decisive words of her truth, in the Emperor the undeniable certainty of long-awaited justice. For the wind knew how to carve its path, for the wind knew how to erase the footprints of those who came before.

For the wind could blow the unmovable face of a mountain, drawing in its profile new traces, painting in its temples the undeniable regalness of a crown shaped in white and grey, in snow and storms, in thunder and rain. 

For the wind carried change so deep that the stone immemorial would be reshaped and would remember its way.

The Knight and the wind were one, and as a natural force, they knew how to change the world and the path aiming for the edge of the lance their Emperor trusted upon. They knew how to soar in the wings that were meant to exalt and rise, erase the traces of a past that rattle with the shackles of cruel tradition fated to imprison and never retract.

The Knight and the wind were one, for her shield was grey and her cloak green and her words sky blue. For her loyalty was won through acts of rebellion and aiming for more. For her strength was equal and matching and her eyes understanding under the unforgiving sun.

For her words rattled the truth and the struggle of the one that had known how to suffer and overcome it.

And in the wind, blowing in the bright omen of an endless storm, the fire of her life grew stronger and her passion ignited as the wheel broke and the world in disarray turned out of sync in its own axis. Turned and spun and cried and bellowed for the truth was no more and the dead were not to speak and the words were not to be obeyed but questioned and the law was to be challenged in an endless cycle that clashed in itself. Raging fire fed by an untamed wind that was never to be contained, never to be satisfied.

Not until the very mold of the wheel was broken and the world was reborn anew.

Not until the world itself, detached and nonchalant, looked their way and bowed at their strength.

For the volcano had erupted, covering the air with its thunder and the land with its lava and the truth of the sins was naked to the eyes who didn’t want to see it and yet had to embrace it in a blind madness that shook the earth through the bones of its children. For its ash covered the earth and made all of them equal, carrying only the weights of their own sins.

And, the carving says, at the bottom of the well where the long-gone time present that was theirs had been written and consulted and spoken and learned from, the world bowed to them, for their cry had awakened in it the fire that had rung hollow before.

The World, the Executioner, the god-given power to sever the heavens in a storm of fire and pain that no one could imagine and no one wanted to summon, was awakened by their cry. It was awakened and it was shaken to the very core of what it considered wrong and right.

The World, the Executioner, the woman that had been appointed as an apostle, raised her defiant, tainted sword and the twitching edge of a blade that was never meant to hurt but to support, build and create, torn the skies as the raging fires of war made the long-forgotten children of a world that care not for them soar and fly. 

And the wheel was broken, and the world was changed, and the people were recognized and the dead were left to be silent and forgotten and buried under the thousands of years that separated the living from them.

The Emperor, the Knight, and the World. The Will, the Sword and the Executioner. The Priest, the Chariot and the Goddess. The three of them changed reality as one. The three of them through time now long gone, rewrote the laws spoken by the dead, oh so many years ago. The three of them, looking toward the horizon, changed the landscape as wild untamed forces of nature would do in centuries to come, guided by the drive of a world they couldn’t see but envisioned.

Guided by the unequivocal knowledge that the future was a lie, the past a prison and the present their only binding. Driven by the unequivocal knowledge that three could achieve what one could dream.

And time relentless, immemorial, has remembered them in the little traces, the carves left in the trunk of the tree of life they knew how to look at and how to bend. The story was told countless times, the tales of their youth and their life spent in days of short nights and blood-soaked battles that were meant to test and were the bane of those who opposed them. The story was told countless times in words that reshaped, evolved and changed but rang through the same, but rang with the same meaning that the first day, as they were the same that their ancestors had sang for the past was never to enslave them again.

A story that was told countless times with words that rattle and changed but in essence never changed.

For the Emperor, the Knight and their World had changed.

And, with them.

The world they, as promised, changed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me, self-indulging myself, yet again posting something poetic and obscure. I remember once seeing a challenge of writing a whole scene without dialogue, well...
> 
> If you like it, kudos and comments are really appreciated!
> 
> You can find me on twitter for more gay stuff @KuroKR_


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